Street Spies

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Ms. Trent sucked in her breath sharply. "That's the prototype of our new M twenty-seven board," she said. She turned on Frank, her voice sharp. "Where did you get this video?"

  Frank threw an uneasy look at his father. Fenton Hardy spoke slowly, deliberately. "We can't reveal our source without harming our investigation. We have a strong suspect. But there are special problems in revealing this person's identity until we're absolutely sure."

  Frank looked at Mr. Chilton, wondering what he'd say if he knew that the suspect was his own daughter.

  Mr. Chilton's voice was tight. "Are you implying that this person is in a position of trust at World-Wide?"

  Mr. Hardy nodded.

  "I'm very close to all my top people," Mr. Chilton said, his jaw working. "They're just like members of my family. I can't believe one of them would betray me." He swallowed. "Yes, you're right. Don't tell me until you're sure."

  "What we really wanted to know," Frank said, "is whether this component is critical. That is, that this wasn't just a case of somebody picking up a free sample." He turned to Ms. Trent. "You're sure of your identification?"

  Ms. Trent nodded. "Of course I'm sure. I designed it. See that?" She pointed to a dark rectangle in the upper corner of the screen. That's the Z twenty-seven thirteen'chip. I'd know it anywhere."

  "Then this single component could cost you a lot of business if the wrong people got hold of it."

  "That's right," Mr. Chilton said. "What's valuable here is the design. The components are all off the shelf — you can buy them at the corner electronics store." He tapped the screen. "But if they have this, they can set up a production line in a week and beat us to the market. And they can undersell us, if they have cheap labor. Then we'd be in real trouble."

  Frank and his father looked at each other. Mr. Chilton intercepted the look and nodded at Ms. TVent. "Thanks, Louise," he said. "That's all."

  When the chief designer had gone, Mr. Hardy turned to Mr. Chilton. "I know that our primary objective is to identify the spy," he said. "But shouldn't we also try to legally force MUX out of this line of business?"

  "I wish we could. But that's what's so frustrating. We don't know a thing about them. They came out of nowhere."

  "What does M-U-X stand for?" Mr. Hardy asked.

  "Maybe it's not an acronym," Frank suggested. "Isn't the word mux an abbreviation for the word multiplexer?"

  Mr. Hardy looked puzzled. "What's that?"

  "It's a communications switching device," Mr. Chilton said.

  "A network controller," Frank added thoughtfully. Network controller. It sounded like a name that might have several meanings.

  Mr. Chilton shook his head. "The corporation's a mystery," he said. "Even our marketing people can't tell us a thing about it."

  Mr. Hardy snapped his fingers. "I know somebody who can," he said. "He's a stockbroker who's made a fortune finding skeletons in corporate closets. Frank can go talk to him and find out what he knows about MUX."

  Maxwell Harris was an owlish-looking little man with wire-rimmed glasses. As Frank walked up behind him, he was staring intently at a video monitor on the desk in his Wall Street office. On a wall screen above his head, a ribbon of stock prices unrolled.

  "Mr. Harris," Frank said. "I'm Frank Hardy."

  "Oh, yes," the little man replied, without looking up from the screen. "Be with you in a minute." Several number displays flashed on the screen in rapid succession. A look of satisfaction appeared on Maxwell Harris's face. He cleared the screen and turned to Frank.

  "Your father said you're after some background information." He gave Frank a curious look. "Something about industrial espionage."

  Frank nodded. "The suspect company's name is MUX, Inc. It may have a storefront operation on the Lower West Side. But that's all we know."

  "Mm - m - m." Mr. Harris seemed lost in thought. "Ah, yes, MUX. The new competitor in the electronics industry that's giving the domestic guys fits." He frowned. "I don't recall seeing MUX traded publicly. Why don't I look into it and give you a call? Where can I reach you?"

  Frank gave him the van's mobile phone number. "We're in kind of a hurry, sir," Frank said hesitantly. He had hoped to walk out with at least a mailing address. "You think I could wait until—"

  "These things take time, son," he interrupted. "Even with our computer system it could take up to an hour. I'll call you the minute I find something. Oh, and give your father my regards. He got me out of a tough spot last year — some phony inside trading charges. I won't forget him."

  Frank nodded, thanked Harris, and turned to go. As he looked back, he saw that the little man was again engrossed in his screen.

  Back in the van and out in traffic, Frank chided himself for being so impatient. If he didn't watch it he'd start acting as impulsively as Joe. Thinking of Joe, he realized he'd better check in with him.

  But that was unsuccessful, too. Joe must be inside somewhere. Frank turned on the screen he'd mounted below the dash to check on Lightfoot. He'd programmed the grid of Manhattan streets on the screen. A quick glance revealed Lightfoot's blip—but it was stationary. He was at SpeedWay.

  Just then the van's phone buzzed. To Frank's surprise, it was Maxwell Harris.

  "I wasn't expecting to hear from you so soon," Frank said, negotiating a left turn. "Do you have something?"

  "Yes," Mr. Harris said. "Well, yes and no. What I have is a very suspicious nothing.

  "That corporation you asked about—MUX?" Harris continued briskly. "This may sound strange, but there's no such company!"

  Chapter 6

  "What do you mean?" Frank snapped impatiently. "If MUX doesn't exist, who's making all that money?"

  "MUX doesn't exist," Mr. Harris snapped back, clearly annoyed with having to explain, "as a conventional business organization. I checked everything and only found a web of shadowy transactions—all shielded by front companies. The stock isn't traded over-the-counter, so the company's privately owned."

  "Can't you get an address, then?" Frank asked.

  "It isn't incorporated in New York, New Jersey, Delaware, or the other states I checked. It doesn't even have a federal tax number." "How does it do business, then?"

  "Same story," Mr. Harris said. "It's puzzling. Most of the company's business is transacted through a post-office box in lower Manhattan. Its finances are funneled through off-shore banks in the Caribbean and in Panama."

  "What about production facilities?"

  "None in this country. Its products are shipped through Taiwan from other countries on the Pacific Rim. The company uses a local advertising agency. It pays on time, and the checks don't bounce. It doesn't even have a phone number." He paused. "This corporation is like those quasars out in space you read about. There's an incredible amount of energy coming from somewhere, but when you look into the center there's-nothing there."

  "Like a phantom network controller," Frank said to himself. "Of course. Mux!"

  "Sorry there isn't more," Mr. Harris said.

  "Thanks. You've been a big help," Frank said. After saying goodbye to Mr. Harris, he tried again to reach Joe. This time he was successful.

  "What's up?" Joe asked.

  "How about a pow - wow?" Frank said. "I've got some info to pass along to you and Dad."

  "I'm off in fifteen minutes. The hotel?"

  "I'll get Dad," Frank said. "Over and out."

  Half an hour later the three Hardys were in the hotel room overlooking Central Park. Frank filled them in on his conversation with Maxwell Harris.

  "I've got two views on this case," Frank said, propping his feet up on the coffee table. "The first is that I've got it almost solved." He grinned bleakly. "The second is that we haven't scratched the surface."

  "From what Harris told you," Mr. Hardy said, stretched full-length on the bed, "I suspect this goes a lot further than the espionage at World-Wide." He shook his head. "If all you've got to hide is a nickel-and-dime operation, you don't go to the trouble of covering your
tracks the way these people have."

  Joe was standing by the window, his hands in his pockets. "What's bothering me," he said abruptly, "is what happens if our covers get blown. That business this afternoon—when Sally yelled out my name in front of Lightfoot—has me edgy. And when I was bugging Slim's and Gypsy's bikes this afternoon, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched."

  Mr. Hardy nodded. "Watch yourselves. This operation might be just the tip of a criminal iceberg. Things could get dangerous."

  Frank clasped his hands behind his head. "Meanwhile, we've still got a prime suspect inside World-Wide. What are we going to do about her?"

  Joe swiveled around. "We don't know that Tiffany's involved," Joe said. "Just because she gave me the package doesn't mean she knew what was in it."

  "I'm with Joe," Mr. Hardy said. "Even if she did, it's not likely that she's the only one at World-Wide involved."

  Joe nodded his head vigorously. "That's right. She's stuck in the mailroom — how would she get hold of a prototype? Maybe somebody's trying to frame her."

  Mr. Hardy frowned at his son. "I'm not sure - you aren't letting your feelings get in the way." He thought for a minute. "But if she's being framed, your cover may already be blown."

  "I don't follow you," Joe said.

  "If somebody at World-Wide knows or suspects who you are, maybe he arranged for you to pick up the package in order to implicate Tiffany."

  "And the motive?" Joe asked slowly.y

  "Maybe he's hoping that Chilton will either assume the thefts were caused by a rebellious daughter, or he'll put a stop to the investigation because Tiffany is involved."

  Joe looked out the window. "Well, either way, I guess it's up to me to find out the truth."

  Frank nodded and looked at his watch. "It's almost time for my shift. We need to know if anyone else at SpeedWay is involved—and I've got an idea how to do it."

  Frank checked in shortly before five. Business was brisk that evening, but all of his runs were routine. When he got back about eleven, Bruce, the night dispatcher, was alone.

  "Busy night, huh?" Frank asked.

  Bruce rubbed his ear. "I've been on the phone since five." He glanced up at the clock. "Mind watching the joint while I get a sandwich? One of the other guys should be back shortly if you need a messenger."

  "Sure," Frank said. What luck, he told himself. As soon as Bruce was out the door, he went to the dispatch board. As usual, it hadn't been erased for a day or two, and he began to decode Gus's scribbles.

  Each row had a rider's name on it, his trips listed from left to right in each row. For each trip, the pickup and delivery addresses were listed, together with the time of pickup and delivery. Some of the addresses — those must be the regulars, Frank thought—were identified with abbreviations.

  Frank quickly scanned the board. Suddenly he spotted something that rang a bell — HQWWT. Headquarters, World-Wide Technologies! With a start, he noticed that most of the WWT pickups were listed in Lightfoot's row. And Lightfoot always made the pickup when the delivery went to another one of WWT's New York offices.

  Ah - ha! Frank thought. There it was—practically proof that Lightfoot was involved in this scam! At a glance, it looked as if Lightfoot's trip times were pretty long. There was only one logical explanation. He must be stopping somewhere along the way.

  But it would take some serious study to confirm that guess. Frank reached into his bag and pulled out a small camera. Quickly he moved the desk light so that it brightened the board. Casting a furtive glance at the door, he aimed the camera at the board and clicked the shutter.

  Just then there was a noise in the hallway. Frank jumped, startled, and the camera clattered to the floor. "Get away from there, you spy!" cried a voice loud enough to wake the dead.

  Chapter 7

  Frank spun around. An attractive young girl with short red hair was staring at him from the shadows of the hallway. It could only be Gypsy. But what was she doing there? According to Joe, she worked the day shift.

  "What are you doing, selling this to the competition?" the girl demanded.

  Frank put on his most winning smile. "I'm Frank Dodd," he said. He picked the camera up and shoved it back in his bag with a prayer that he'd managed to get a clear shot. He'd planned to take more than one, for insurance, but that idea was blown. "I'm new here," he added. "I don't think we've met."

  She gave him a stony glare. "I asked what you were doing with that camera? What is this, some secret investigation?"

  Secret investigation? Was she on to him? Frank sat down on the corner of Gus's desk and grinned disarmingly. "No. I was just photographing the schedule board. What are you doing here so late?"

  Gypsy was studying him with an intent look. "I've got it," she said wryly. "We've had all kinds, but you're the first photographer. The title of that one is what, 'Schedule Board at Midnight'?"

  Frank relaxed a little. It didn't seem as if she were on to him. But she hadn't explained why she was hanging around so late at night, and she hadn't given her name.

  "Actually," he said, "I'm a business student. I've got to do this class project on making business more efficient. So I decided to try to figure out how to optimize the run schedules." He grinned again. "Too bad you caught me. I didn't want Gus or Bruce to hear about it. I thought I'd work something out and surprise them."

  "Oh, yeah. Now I know who you are," Gypsy said, her frown yielding to a smile. "You're the one everybody calls Doc. They say you're real smart—but weird. Always asking questions."

  Frank shrugged. "How're you going to find out anything if you don't ask?" he responded offhandedly.

  With her green eyes and red hair, Gypsy was really very pretty, in an unconventional way. She held herself with confidence, as if she'd tested herself in some pretty tough situations and had come out on top. But Frank still hadn't found out what she was doing at the office an hour before closing time. Had she been spying on him?

  "You must be Gypsy," Frank said. "I thought you worked the day shift."

  "I do." She went to the coffeepot and poured herself a cup. "But Gus told me that Bruce was shorthanded, so I asked to work a double shift this week. I need the money."

  "Don't you get tired?" Frank said. Working extra shifts—was that how she'd gotten the money that had impressed Slim?

  "Sometimes," Gypsy said with a shrug, stirring sugar into her coffee. "It's no big deal." Her glance was enigmatic. "That's the thing with you college types."

  "Oh, yeah?"

  She sipped her coffee. "Always thinking about the way things ought to be, not how they really are." A bitter matter-of-fact tone came into her voice. "You think the people who own this operation will give a hoot about your optimized schedules? Messengers are a dime a dozen — they need more, they hire more. If you don't like pedaling your legs off, you're replaced. This job doesn't come with employee benefits, Doc."

  62

  Bruce appeared at the door with a Styrofoam cup of steaming coffee and a paper plate with a wedge of tired-looking pie.

  "Phone ring?" he inquired, settling himself in his chair and attacking his pie.

  "Nope." Frank waited to see whether Gypsy would inform on him. To his relief, she kept quiet — at least for now.

  Frank stretched and hoisted himself stiffly off the desk. His shift was over. He was in good shape, but he'd probably ridden thirty miles that night and his legs were tired. "Guess I'll call it a night," he said, checking his watch. It didn't look like anything was going to develop in the half-hour before closing, and he wanted to drop the film off at a one-hour photo place on his way back to the hotel. There was an all-night developer in Times Square. He looked at Gypsy. "Which way are you going? Want some company?"

  She shook her head. "I think I'll hang around," she replied, picking up a newspaper. "Might make a dollar or two." She hesitated, then smiled conspiratorially. "See you later."

  "Yeah," Frank said, picking up his messenger bag. He felt a twinge of gratitude f
or her silence. He would have liked to find out more about Gypsy. But there was no time now. He lifted his hand.

  "See you," he said.

  The next morning was cool and clear, and Joe's Dreath came out as a heavy mist as he pedaled back to SpeedWay. He had just finished a series of runs and was already hungry for lunch.

  In front of SpeedWay, Slim and Apollo were hunched on the steps. Joe nodded to them and went inside.

  A few minutes later, while Joe was pouring himself a cup of coffee, Gus called Lightfoot over for an assignment. Lightfoot listened, nodded, and left. Gus got up, hobbling painfully, and scribbled the trip entry on the dispatch board. Joe squinted, but he couldn't make it out.

  Joe made himself wait a full minute before he edged over to Gus's desk. He had to see what was on the board without arousing Gus's suspicions.

  "How's business this morning?" he asked casually.

  "Still slow," Gus said. The phone rang and he picked it up. "SpeedWay," he barked. He swiveled in his chair, his back to Joe. Quickly, Joe scanned the board, finding Gus's last entry.

  There it was. The origin was HQWWT, and the destination was World-Wide's lab, near Wall Street. This could be the break they'd been waiting for!

  "Right," Gus said into the phone. "A messenger will be there pronto." He banged down the receiver, scribbled a note and address on a work order, and handed it to Joe. "Rush job," he commanded. "Go!"

  Joe started out the door, reading the address. Bad news — it was on the Upper West Side. He couldn't follow Lightfoot. He stood for a second on the front steps.

  "Well, brother, this one's all yours," he muttered into his mike.

  "What's up?" Frank said in his headset.

  "Lightfoot's on his way to World-Wide headquarters," Joe said as he headed for his bike. "He's got a delivery to the lab in Lower Manhattan. Afraid you're on your own. I've got a pickup on the Upper West Side."

  "Roger," Frank said. There was a pause. "I've got him on the screen. Oh, and Joe?"

  "Yeah?" Joe asked, getting on his bike.